Marching With Caesar - Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  “I thought this might help make our task a little easier,” Caesar explained. “I've always found that when I can see a problem arranged in a logical fashion, it helps me solve it more quickly.”

  I do not remember what I said, because I was still consumed with admiration at the genius of Caesar in thinking up such a contrivance. He had indeed made things much easier, but that only became apparent as we used his device, and once you saw it, it made perfect sense and you wondered why nobody had thought of this before. I suppose that is the sign of true genius, in solving a problem in the simplest manner possible, and in doing so making people wonder why nobody has come up with this solution earlier. The way it worked is that we would take the name of a Centurion, place his tile on the hook of the Cohort and Century that we thought would be the best fit for him and the Legion, then we would have an open discussion about our choice. General Pollio was invited to participate, which I did not mind, as well as some of the Tribunes, who were strictly enjoined from speaking. What we found is that rarely did a Centurion stay on the hook that he was initially given, as his relative strengths and weaknesses were discussed. It was in this manner that the day passed, although I found that I had to go from a sitting to a reclining position fairly quickly, and it became night, but Caesar showed no sign of stopping.

  We had been taking only very short breaks to relieve ourselves, and it was during one of these breaks that Octavian approached me and whispered, “I'm sorry, Primus Pilus, but it looks as if our dinner will have to be postponed.”

  I laughed. “I would have warned you that you were being exceedingly optimistic about that,” I agreed. “Once Caesar gets the bit in his teeth, there's no stopping him.”

  “So I’m learning.” Octavian gave a rueful laugh of his own, then grimaced at the sight of Caesar waving us back to work. “But I'm learning a lot, and that’s what’s most important.”

  As we walked back to the board, Octavian, seeing that I was a bit wobbly, offered his arm. It was a sign of my fatigue that I took it without hesitation or complaint.

  I thanked him, though I was also a bit surprised, not at the offer of help, but at what he had just said. “You plan on a career in the army?”

  The doubt must have been evident in my voice because he looked up at me, and just for a moment I saw what I thought was a flash of anger.

  Then it was gone almost more quickly than it had come, and he gave me a smile. “Not necessarily, Primus Pilus. Oh, I plan on doing my obligatory campaigns, but I don’t believe that I'm cut out for a military career any more than you do.” I could feel the flush rising up my neck as I began to stammer out some sort of protest, but he cut me off with a laugh and wave of his hand. “No, don’t be embarrassed. You’re absolutely right in your assessment. But I still find this all very fascinating, and I love to learn new things, no matter what the subject. Except Greek, perhaps.” He made a face, and I saw the schoolboy emerge. This time I held my tongue, remembering how touchy young men are about their youth. “Still,” he continued, “you never know when something like this will come in handy. Who knows, one day I may be in Uncle’s position myself, and what I learned today will come in very handy indeed.”

  I was about to laugh at his hubris, but something stopped me, and now I am glad that it did. We had made it back to the board by this time, where there were just a couple of tiles left, but one in particular I had been surreptitiously shuffling back to the bottom of the stack, wanting to put off the decision.

  At least, I thought I had been sly. “Pullus, it’s time that you stop delaying the decision about where to put your friend Scribonius,” Caesar said gently, proving once again that he did not miss a trick.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I had been in an agony of indecision about Scribonius, who had told me some time earlier that he was planning on re-enlisting, no matter how things shook out. While I took that as a sign that he would accept whatever posting he was assigned, I still wanted to do my best for him. Since the rift between Vibius and me, Scribonius had become my closest friend, and he was one of only two of my original tentmates that was staying on. The other was Vellusius, who by his own admission would never be anything other than what he was, a Gregarius. Vibius had made his decision to leave the army the day he found out that Juno’s husband had died, and as far as I knew, was already back home and married to her. Scribonius, on the other hand, I considered much smarter than I, and while he was not as good a fighter, he was an outstanding leader of men, and when all is said and done, that is probably the most important aspect of a Centurion’s job. You can be the greatest swordsman in the army, or you can do vast sums in your head faster than the quickest clerk, but if men will not follow you willingly, into and through anything, then it is all for nothing. Perhaps most importantly to me, I trusted Scribonius with my life. So the question before me, while simple, was also damnably hard at the same time. Did I reward Scribonius by moving him into the First Cohort, and thereby into the first grade of Centurion, but in one of the lower Centuries, or did I keep him as Pilus Prior of the Second, where he had demonstrated that he was one of the best in the army at running a Cohort? While moving into the First was technically a promotion, the reality was far different. Being a Pilus Prior, even of a lower Cohort, gave a Centurion a certain autonomy that would be missing if they were commanding a Century in a higher ranked Cohort. Many times, operations, especially under Caesar, were of Cohort size, and that is one place where Scribonius had flourished, when he was in independent command, out on his own and away from my prying eyes. It was also a load off my mind knowing that I could depend on Scribonius to make the right decisions without running to me for help. For perhaps the hundredth time, I cursed myself for being too cowardly to discuss this with Scribonius before now, because I was afraid that he would give me an answer that I did not want to hear, since the truth was I was as close to decided as one could be to keep him where he was. I valued him too much as Pilus Prior for him to be Princeps Posterior, which was the post that was open in the First at that point, but I honestly did not know how he would respond. As I said, he had assured me that he would accept whatever posting he was given, yet I did not want him to resent me, and I also wanted him to know how much I valued his service and his friendship. Keeping him in the Pilus Prior slot, at least to my mind, was not exactly praise and reward. All these thoughts were going through my head as I fiddled with his tile, and I suddenly realized that Caesar, Pollio, and Octavian were all studying me. For the second time, I felt the heat rising to my face, Caesar’s expression of amusement not helping any.

  “It seems that you are on the horns of a dilemma, neh Pullus?” Caesar asked with barely suppressed enjoyment.

  I swallowed my irritation at his seeming pleasure in my predicament, and nodded unhappily.

  I started to explain my thinking, but he quickly waved me to silence. “I completely understand, Pullus, believe me, which is why I am so amused, I suppose. These are exactly the sorts of problems I've been wrestling with and I suppose that misery loves company. How do you show your regard for the service of a loyal subordinate when by rewarding them you put them in a position where they are in fact, less valuable to you? Have I described the essence of your problem?”

  I had to suppress a wince as he spoke; when it was described so nakedly it certainly made it more unseemly, at least to my ears, but he had summed it up in just a few sentences, and I said as much.

  Suddenly inspired, I asked him, “So what would you do in my place, Caesar?” There, I thought, see how you like it.

  He did not bat an eye, nor did he hesitate, answering evenly, “Well, I think it’s obvious, isn’t it? You have to put him, or I suspect in this matter, keep him where he'll serve Rome the best, and I believe that's exactly where he is.”

  He looked me in the eyes, sending me a very clear but unspoken message. You can try to drop me in the cac all you want, but I will still come out smelling as if I had just come from the baths instead, his eyes told me as they danced w
ith silent laughter.

  “Do you agree with my assessment, Primus Pilus?” he asked with only slightly mocking deference.

  Despite myself, I could not help but give a rueful smile as I acknowledged defeat. “Yes, Caesar. I agree.”

  With that settled, we moved on to the question of Optios, finishing the entire task shortly before dawn.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  With the question of who fit where on Caesar’s great board, now came the hard part, which of course fell squarely on my shoulders, and that was telling the Centurions and Optios of their respective fates. Some of them would be ecstatic, some would be pleased, some would be indifferent, but it was the last category of men who would be unhappy that I was worried about the most. I do not know if it worked out that way by accident or not, but as I examined the list of names of the men who Caesar, Pollio, and I suspected would be the most disaffected by their posting, with not a little dismay I saw that many, if not most of them, were men who had not actually signed their re-enlistment papers yet. These were the men who had adopted a wait and see approach, which told me that there was a strong possibility that a fair number of them might opt for life on a farm rather than a posting that was not to their liking. Compounding the problem was that if a good number of the men actually did take the option to retire, that meant that we would have to look outside the Legion for eligible candidates for those spots, as we had already run through every possibility in the 10th to fill the empty spots. This was not all that unusual, but no Primus Pilus likes breaking in a Centurion from another Legion, for a variety of reasons. Every Legion is run a little differently, according to the tastes and whims of the Primus Pilus. I had a very specific way that I ran the 10th, and along with overseeing the training of the new tirones, I would have to make sure that the new Centurions were broken in as quickly as possible. However, if all of the men were from within the 10th to begin with, I would not have to worry about teaching them how I ran my Legion. If I had the added headache of worrying about Centurions who did not know how I ran things, my life would be that much harder. It was with this in mind that I went to the camp priests to offer up a white kid goat to be sacrificed to help ensure that this possibility did not come to pass. I am not particularly religious, but I figured at that point that it could not hurt.

  After thinking about it, I decided that I would talk to the man I was most worried about first, and that was Scribonius. I was in my now-accustomed spot in bed, although I was sitting up with my feet on the floor when he was announced by Diocles, and he came in, helmet under his arm in the prescribed manner. Waving him to a seat at the table, I got up from the bed to sit next to him, pushing an amphora of wine in his direction.

  He nodded his acceptance, then Diocles poured him a cup, of which he took a sip, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he swallowed. “This is Falernian,” he observed. “Which means that you’re trying to soften me up for something. I bet I can guess what it is.”

  I bit back a curse; Scribonius had always been smarter than I was, and had seen right through my attempt to set a lighter atmosphere. “Fine,” I snapped, angry at both him and myself. “Since you don’t want to enjoy the wine, I'll come right out with it.”

  Even as I spoke, I could hear my inner voice screaming at me that I needed to curb my tongue and soften my tone. This was not starting out well at all.

  I paused to collect myself, then plunged in. “Scribonius, I want you to know how much I value not just your service, but your friendship, which is why making this decision has been extremely hard.”

  Setting his cup down, he leaned back. “Go on,” he said coolly, clearly determined not to make this easy on me.

  “Ultimately, I have to do what’s best for Rome, and for the Legion. I want you to know that it has nothing to do with your record of service, or my opinion of you . . .”

  “By the gods, Titus. Are you trying to make this more painful for both of us?” Scribonius interrupted. Before I could say anything, he finished, “Just spit it out.”

  “I’m leaving you where you are,” I blurted out.

  For several heartbeats, he sat there with a blank look on his face, and I was struck by the idea that he did not take my meaning. “I mean, you’re going to continue to be Pilus Prior of the Second.”

  Finally nodding, he did not speak, but reached for his wine cup, taking a deep swallow. As he lifted his cup to his mouth, I could see that his hands were shaking, and I was stricken with guilt, thinking that he was taking it even harder than I had thought he would. Then, he began making a choking sound, and now truly alarmed, I stood to pound him on the back, while signaling for Diocles to come offer aid. Before I could do anything however, his mouthful of wine went spewing across the table, as the choking sound changed into something completely different, though it took me a moment to realize. Scribonius was laughing, not just laughing, but guffawing harder than I ever remembered him doing before. Convinced now that he had gone completely insane, I looked to Diocles in alarm, who could only give a helpless shrug as we watched my best friend shaking and gasping for breath.

  Finally, he gulped in enough air to speak. “That’s the bad news? That I’m going to remain Pilus Prior?”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously, growing more confused by the moment. “I wanted to promote you to First Cohort like you deserve, but you’re too valuable to the Legion where you are.” Understanding was slowly dawning on me, and I asked, “You mean you’re not upset?”

  Scribonius looked at me in open astonishment, then threw his head back and laughed again. "By the gods, no. In fact, I was worried that you were going to do exactly that, promote me to the First. That would have been the bad news!”

  I sat down heavily, pulling the wine to me and pouring my own cup full to the brim, thinking that I would never understand the way men’s minds worked.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I wish all of the interviews had as pleasant an outcome as the one with Scribonius, but that was not to be. Of the dozen Centurions who we suspected would be upset, our instincts were correct on every one of them, and out of the dozen, seven of them opted to retire to the land promised to them by Caesar rather than take what they saw as a demotion.

  As one of them said angrily, “Why don’t you just bust me back to the ranks and make me start over? That’s practically what you're doing anyway!”

  Then he stormed out of my office, trailing a string of oaths behind him. I had to go back to Caesar to report that we now had seven more spots to fill, a fact that made him none too happy, since it meant that he would have to postpone his departure until we found suitable replacements. Fortunately, he did not take his ire out on me, choosing some choice invective for the now-retiring seven men. Of course, while he was disappointed, he had also prepared for this eventuality, and I was presented with a list of candidates that Caesar’s staff had prepared and told that interviews would begin the next morning. Some of the names I was familiar with, if only by reputation, and I had to admit, however grudgingly, that if all I had heard about these men were true, then Caesar had picked very well indeed. I decided that I would reserve judgment on that question until the next day.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The candidates for the seven slots were all sitting or standing in the outer office of the Praetorium when I walked in. I had taken the litter but had stopped the slaves two streets away from the headquarters so I could be seen walking up. I was not willing to be seen in the litter by Centurions I did not know, whether it incurred Caesar’s wrath or not, but he was busy inside and did not notice. There were 20 men waiting, and I nodded to them as I walked past to enter Caesar’s office without being announced. Caesar and Pollio were standing in a corner, talking intensely in low voices, while Octavian sat in his accustomed spot, pretending not to be listening as carefully as he could get away with. I could see by Caesar’s face that whatever Pollio was telling him was not welcome news, so I assumed it had to do with events in Rome, which were still unsettled as the city waited for Caesar’s return. Once
finished with their conversation, Caesar signaled for us to begin, then we called in the first candidate, a Centurion from the Sixth Cohort of the 15th as I recall. The day dragged on and on, but by nightfall we had talked to every man, and had made our final decisions. Thirteen men were disappointed, while we found the seven that we thought would best fit into the 10th Legion. It probably will not surprise you when I reveal that the identity of one of them was none other than my old tutor and brother-in-law Cyclops, who was going to become the Pilus Prior of the Eighth Cohort.

  Since the business was concluded fairly early, Caesar turned to me and asked, “As this is my last night here, Pullus, I was wondering if you'd like to join Octavian and me for a light dinner tonight? It will be nothing special, soldier’s fare, but I hope you would find the company an enticement.”

  Of course, I agreed, and the time was set for a third of a watch later.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The dinner was as intimate as promised, with only Caesar, Octavian, and Pollio, and the fare was as described, though the quality of the bread and oil was of a much better grade, while there was more meat than was normal, which Caesar explained as we sat down. “I know that you're more partial to meat than most men, Pullus, so I took the liberty of having some prepared. Besides,” he added. “You need to build your strength for the coming trial of getting the 10th trained up to standard.”

  I was touched, even though I knew that Caesar’s motivation was not selfless or just for my benefit. The fact that he knew I liked meat more than most men was just another example of Caesar’s difference; I could no more imagine a Labienus, or even Marcus Antonius paying attention to what a Centurion ate than I could see them sprouting wings and flying. Besides, he was absolutely correct, I would need every bit of my strength for the ordeal that lay ahead of me. Centurions are expected to lead from the front, in everything. While I would not go through the physical training, the thirds of a watch I would put in, expected to be everywhere at once, would tax my strength, even if I were fully recovered. As it was, I had progressed to a point where I could stand on my feet for perhaps a third of a watch at a time before I had to rest, while the periods of time I spent recovering were growing shorter, but I still had a long way to go. As we ate, the talk naturally turned towards politics, which I listened to with some interest, though I had nothing to contribute. The main topic was Cicero’s tract about Cato, which Caesar was still angry about, and he announced plans to write an “Anti-Cato” in response to Cicero.